


How We

by flashindie



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashindie/pseuds/flashindie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan doesn't believe in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How We

Thing is, Ryan doesn’t believe in love.

“We should play scrabble,” and Brendon leans back in the seat, grins hard and fast and Spencer just, Spencer _rolls his eyes_ , props an elbow on the table and stares at Brendon through too many eyelashes.

“Ryan will kick your ass and then you’ll spend the rest of the year fucking pouting and stomping your feet and acting like a fucking three year old and-“

“I vote no,” Jon says, and he’s flicking through the album on his digital camera, moving through too many memories, pick and choose, delete and keep, food for thought or food for trash can.

“Therefore unanimous,” Spencer states, closing his eyes and Brendon, he howls in outrage, throws himself bodily up from where he slouched.

“The _fuck_ , Spencer Smith! Ryan and I haven’t even voted-“

Spencer rolls his eyes (again), “As best friend to the aforementioned Ryan Ross, I am allowed to take control of his votes.”

“Well, what about me?”

“You traded me your voting powers for half a tub of cookie dough ice-cream three weeks ago, Urie,” Jon intercepts. “Unanimous.”

Maybe it was a good idea to take time out for the new record, but really, it probably wasn’t. Ryan very much likes these people (would love, would say that, but he’s not hypocritical, not that likely to preach what he doesn’t practice), but to live in each other, to tour for months and months and find that when you stop (finally, tape’s on pause, the movements, they’re still jerky), you finally break, all that really matters is the fact that when you pack to go home, you can’t tell what’s yours or what’s theirs anymore. That should probably mean more than it does.

Brendon’s sidling closer, pout in place, picture perfect on his face. “ _You_ love me, Ryan Rossy,” he says, and he presses his face into the grove of Ryan’s neck. Ryan, all he can feel is heated breath and wet lips, can smell pizza and ice-cream and can hear the paused music on guitar heroes. Ryan, all he can think is _this is my life_. 

The sun’s filtering through the blinds, splicing against Brendon’s unwashed hair and reflecting off his glasses. Right now, Brendon’s eyes are liquid chocolate, animal fur, rusty copper and Ryan could write a million words about it. He could write forever about freckles and long necks and miles of pale skin, could write about Brendon’s breath sliding over his skin and Brendon’s fingers trembling around his wrist, around his waist. He could write sonnets and lyrics and entire fucking chick flicks about how all of this makes him feel so - - how it makes him _feel_. 

“Coz, y’know,” Brendon says, and he presses a kiss to Ryan’s neck. “I love you.”

And Ryan though, he doesn’t believe in love, but Brendon and his stupid words and his stupid lips and his stupid eyes that are too fucking wide, it doesn’t stop Ryan from leaning in close, pressing back. It doesn’t stop him from giving a fuck, and it probably should. 

Ryan doesn’t believe in love, but in moments like these, he sorta wishes he did.


End file.
